


The Coat

by libraryv



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, Fist Fights, Fluff and Angst, Robin takes care of Strike
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-15 18:04:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18504244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryv/pseuds/libraryv
Summary: Update: your comments kept me writing!  Thank you thank you! I had a few ideas, all separate, but now I've put them all together: Strike's coat, Robin's 30th, a fistfight, Robin taking care of him, and then a satisfying ending. Changed the rating to reflect the language and the fighting, it could possibly go higher. ;)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally what I had wanted to use for "scent" in another thing until I went in another direction. A bit more backstory came to me today and I thought I'd go ahead with this - although I'm not sure if I want to develop the whole idea fully or leave it as is. Can't decide.

On her way to get more napkins, Robin saw, though the kitchen windows, Strike’s tall figure, his features obscured by the evening light. She walked through the kitchen, watching him take a draw from his cigarette.

Strike turned around at the sound of Robin coming out onto the patio. She joined him at the corner of the little garden, watching his profile.

“I didn’t notice you had escaped out here.”

Strike inhaled, squinting down at her.

“Alex still regaling everyone with tales of his heroism?”

Robin felt a surge of annoyance on behalf of her boyfriend, then smothered it. 

“I think it’s amazing, all the stuff he’s done.”

Strike gave her a half-smile and turned his head to the side, blowing smoke away from her. 

“I’m glad.”

Robin couldn’t tell if Strike was being sarcastic or not. What was it to him if Alex liked to talk? 

Her need to join him, share a moment with him, seemed suddenly silly. What was she doing out here, trying to draw a conversation out of her always-taciturn business partner?

She shivered in the cool air, and Strike loosened his overcoat from his shoulders, teeth clamped on his cigarette. She tried not to be touched that he was wearing his best shirt. 

“Here-“

“No, it’s fine, I’m going back in.”

“Too late.” The heavy coat landed on her shoulders, and Robin instinctively drew it around her. She took a deep breath. 

“Cormoran, about last night. I’m really sorry-“

He shook his head, grounding out his cigarette in an ashtray.

“You don’t need to apologize.” He looked at her. “You were right.”

The scene flashed before her eyes again; the birthday drinks had been a terrible idea. (Especially the third one.) 

“I think I’ll go inside.” Strike threw her a grin, which always disarmed her. “I was promised cake.”

She watched him head in, the warmth of his coat like a blanket, settling into her skin. It smelled of smoke, mostly, but also of stout, with the faintest hint of mint. The collar rubbed at her cheek.

Why did she feel like crying?

Strike reappeared, coming through the patio door and walking towards her. He stopped in front of her and reached out, drawing her to him.

It was an awkward hug; his coat was still on her shoulders. His arms went around her waist; she wrapped her arms around his middle. He was so warm.

There was a moment where she wasn’t sure if she had imagined his lips on her hair; the whisper of a kiss at the crown of her head.

“How could I forget to say it? Happy Birthday, Robin.”


	2. Strike's Coat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike's point of view.

Dinner was a tortuous affair: Alex, Strike decided, was an idiot. 

Charming and open in a way that Matthew hadn’t been, Alex was certainly compelling. He was quick to laugh, and had a convincing way of putting his hand on his chin and looking at Robin while she spoke.

But he wasn’t actually listening to her. He didn’t actually listen to anyone. Strike had watched him all night, and realized that Alex was basically waiting his turn to speak - about himself - over and over again.

He could feel Ilsa’s eyes on him. Knew she didn’t like Alex. Well, what the fuck was he supposed to do about it? Robin could do whatever the fuck she wanted.

He needed a break.

After the dishes were cleared, Strike stepped outside for a quiet moment. 

He had thought, awhile back, after the Chiswell case, that maybe he and Robin…but he hadn’t want to rush. She needed, he felt, to enjoy life a bit. And he had enjoyed watching her explore things, find herself, had allowed himself to hope that maybe, with time…

 _Of course not, you stupid bastard. Not with you._  
He heard the door open, made a bet with himself that it was Robin, turned to see that he was right. God, he literally ached to hold her.  
He could feel her eyes on him. 

“I didn’t notice you had escaped out here.”

He looked down at her. He had no way of venting his feelings, so he landed on the safe topic of mildly tearing into her boyfriend.

“Alex still regaling everyone with tales of his heroism?” Fucker. 

She looked slightly annoyed.

“I think it’s amazing, all the stuff he’s done.”

_I think you’re amazing._

“I’m glad.”

Strike watched her, feeling a bit guilty about his crack about Alex. He wanted Robin to have a good birthday dinner. She shivered. He barely kept himself from gathering her into his arms, and settled on shaking off his coat.

“Here-“

“No, it’s fine, I’m going back in-“

“Too late.” She looked adorable, and far too right, in his coat. 

“Cormoran, about last night, I’m really sorry-“

Christ. He thought maybe she’d forgotten. He’d hoped the drinks would make the memory of that hazy. In an unbelievably stupid moment of weakness, and due mostly to Robin’s leaning gently into him, giggling tipsily, asking him whether he had anyone special in his life…

He’d said yes. Meaning _Robin,_ of course. For one moment, she had sat up and looked right at him, his heart had betrayed him and jumped in his chest. Then she had started to go on about how he was the fittest he’d ever been and how he was a very good guy and he should tell this girl how he felt. 

He shook his head at the memory and put out his cigarette, looking at Robin.

“You don’t need to apologize. You were right.”

She _was_ right. But she was happy with Alex, with her life as it was. No way he was going to screw that up.

Robin looked at him. She was perfect. 

_Time to get out of here, you sentimental bastard._

“I think I’ll go inside.” He grinned at her, trying to shake himself out of it. “I was promised cake.”

He walked inside and took a deep breath. Wait – 

He turned and walked back towards her, her face looking at him with an expression of surprise, and did he detect something else?

_Stop imagining things._

He pulled her into a hug; he loved the way she felt in his arms. So right. He couldn’t stop himself from bending his lips to her hair and giving her a quick kiss; that delicate scent of roses undoing him.  
“How could I forget to say it? Happy Birthday, Robin.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike tries to drown his Robin-sorrows in a pint, gets into a fight on her behalf and things take a turn for the worse...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always found Strike's ex-boxer past sexy as hell. Wanted to put him in a fight but needed to tie a bit of coherent story together around it. All of your lovely comments were so inspiring - I had an idea about Strike's coat/Robin's gift and now I can tie it all together, with a fight in the middle.   
> This chapter is Robin-less, but don't worry, because of course, who better to take care of beaten-up Strike? :D

Friday night pub goers gave Strike a wide berth as they passed to and from his table: his expression was pure thunder.

He had been on his leg all day, he had not slept the previous night, and his thoughts had been unable to turn away from re-living the hug from Robin’s birthday dinner. The way she had beamed at Strike across from her birthday candles. The way she had beamed at Alex, after opening a very expensive, tasteful bracelet. His own idea for Robin’s birthday present now seemed plain and unromantic: he was a fool for thinking it was a good one.

Six pints down.

Fucking hell. Instead of focusing on the cheating wife he was supposed to be tailing, flashes of Robin, beaming at Alex, had kept taking over. He had managed some perfunctory pictures; the client would be satisfied, but Strike knew he could have done a better job. 

_You knew better than to let this happen._

From the moment Robin had walked into his office, Strike had known the threat she presented to the carefully drawn lines he had drawn around his life. Around his heart.

Seven pints.

Strike leaned forward, elbows on the tabletop, hands roughly dragging through his hair. The collar of his coat brushed his face and he caught the faintest trace of Robin’s floral scent. He gave into memory; Robin in his arms, his lips against her soft hair.

At least Strike’s leg had stopped its throbbing; in fact, it was feeling curiously weightless. Excellent. Time for another pint. He heaved himself unsteadily to his feet and scowled at the table edge, which had jumped into his side at the last minute.

He made his way towards the busy bar. A young couple were laughing and clutching each other at the front, holding up the barman’s time.

“Can I ask you to move aside a bit?” shouted the barman at them, looking rather put out.

The man stopped embracing the girl long enough to roll his eyes rudely. Strike, with a bit of a delayed start, recognized Alex. 

“Calm down, calm down, we’re moving.” Alex and the girl moved aside, and a rush of people moved to order drinks.

Strike returned to his table with his pint, crashing a little too heavily into his seat. He gulped down half his drink. The pub was beginning to look fuzzy around the edges.

There was a burst of loud, screeching laughter from a table nearby; Alex and his blonde date with a group of friends. Strike watched Alex put his arm casually around the blonde and say something into her ear.

Eight pints.

Alex had his arm around the girl, and was laughing loudly in her face. Strike felt a surge of dislike. What the hell did Robin see in this idiot?

Alex brought the girl closer, and Strike registered the fact, through layers of alcohol, that Robin’s boyfriend was now glued to another girl’s mouth. 

As if in slow motion, he got up from his table and walked over to them. His judgement was too far gone to think this through; Strike had already shoved him a bit roughly on the shoulder. 

“What the hell-?” Alex had turned and looked at Strike, a look of disbelief on his face. The girl looked from one to the other, watching. Their table of friends had gone silent.

“What’s your problem?” Alex was facing Strike.

“M' problem,” said Strike thickly (it was hard to get his tongue to catch up with his brain) “is you, mate.”

“Do I know you? Wait – aren’t you Robin’s boss?”

“Partner. She’s-“ Strike raised his head and gave Alex a glare. “She’s better’n you. Yer’n…yer’n an idiot.”

Alex’s face had flushed with anger.

“Look. I don’t know what your problem is, but what Robin doesn’t know won’t hurt her. I’m just out for a night of fun, and old Robin isn’t going to complain about me having fun.” He winked at Strike and brought the girl close again.

“Besides,” Alex continued. “Despite what she says about being a ‘detective’ or whatever, I don't think she's smart enough to realize I never said we're exclusive.” He smiled down at the girl and stuck his hand down the front of her dress. She gasped and drew back.

“Ouch! Alex, that hurt!” 

Alex reached for her again. “Come on, don’t be like that!” He grinned and swiped for her, but the girl took another step back, towards Strike, who moved subtly forward in front of her. 

“She said. Tha’s enuff.” 

Alex’s expression crumpled. “Get the fuck out my business.” He stepped forward and took a swing.

Strike’s judgement might be gone, but his boxing instincts had not left him. He saw Alex’s left hook coming, stepped back. Alex’s fist flung into the air in front of Strike’s face. 

Strike, short on sleep and temper but not power, threw a sharp punch immediately back, catching Alex on the side of the jaw, knocking him to the floor. 

People around them gasped; the girl had screamed and knelt beside Alex, who glared at Strike from the floor. Alex got to his feet and pointed a finger dramatically at Strike. 

“You. Will. Be. Sorry.”

“Don’ bother,” said Strike, already turning away, towards the door. “’M leavin’.” 

He made his way to the door and found himself on the busy street. He had a vague impression that he ought to phone somebody, perhaps Nick, or call himself a cab. He took out his phone and punched some buttons, the numbers blurring into nonsense.The pints he had drunk were rapidly catching up with him; the wave of bodies on the sidewalk was hard to navigate. 

He turned into familiar short alley; a shortcut. He heard footsteps behind him; he turned around and saw a group of five men approaching him.

“Hey! We want a word with you!”

Strike’s foggy brain was scrambling to catch up. Alex’s friends. Ah.

He held up his hands as the group surrounded him.

“I dunno wha’ yer doin, but no need to-“ he slurred, before the first man took a swing.

Strike dodged it, but another punch came from behind, another to his side. His large body absorbed the impact of both, and he landed a blow to the ribs of somebody to his left. Two more of them tried a few ineffective punches to Strike’s stomach. One got lucky and caught Strike roughly in the mouth with a heavily ringed fist; he felt his lip split open. 

Strike caught the nearest attacker in a headlock before he felt a slam to the back of his head with something sharp.

The impact brought him to his knees, his vision going black at the edges before Alex’s face swam into view. He swayed, fighting to stay upright, bringing a hand to the back of his head, feeling an ominous wetness. What had they hit him with?

“This will teach you a lesson, you big fucker.”   
Strike was aware of something large blocking his vision from the right, and then there was blackness.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike's situation is a bit serious, but Robin is there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This won't be a long story - but before Strike's coat and Robin's birthday can come back full circle, Strike needs some time after his fight.

“Cormoran? Cormoran.”

Strike wrenched his eyes open; a blur of flashing lights accompanied by a heavy dose of pain. Too much. He shut them again.

His brain struggled; had he punched somebody?

“Cormoran.”

Wait. No. Somebody had punched _him_.

“You his girlfriend? You can ride with us.”

“No, I’m-yes, I’m riding with you.”

 _Alex. Alex and his friends had hit his head-_

A moment of weightlessness – Strike felt a swooping sensation, then another jarring note of pain in the back of his head as his whole body was jostled. He registered the fact that he was lying down. The back of his head felt about to split open.

It cost him, but he opened his eyes again. Robin’s blue-grey eyes swam into view; he focused on them and kept his own open.

“Cormoran! I’m here –“ he felt Robin’s cool fingers slide into his own. He tried to smile at her, but there was something wrong with his face; he felt a stinging sensation and saw Robin gasp.

“Oh my god! Don’t-your lip! Here-“ Robin had grabbed a tissue from somewhere and pressed it to his mouth. Her other hand didn’t leave his. 

He watched with disconnected interest she brought the tissue back away, bloody. Strike turned his throbbing head to the side. Ah. An ambulance. That was silly. He should go home.

He became aware of his legs – he tried to move them but realized they were strapped down. More straps held him tightly across his chest. Only his lower arms were free.

“Hey.” Robin squeezed his hand, brought his attention back to her.

“Listen to me. They say you’ve got a concussion. You also have quite a gash on the back of your head, they have to stitch it back up, but they have to-something about brain pressure and swelling, and they-”

Her eyes were brimming with tears. The sight of it went straight to his chest; a combination of being touched that she cared, and a desire to stop her tears, fought for dominance as he squeezed her hand back.

He tried to smile again; tasted blood. 

“’M okay.”

Robin stared at him, then laughed.

“You’re quite obviously not okay, but I’m glad to see you’re still capable of being stubborn.”

She leaned forward, her fingers sweeping his hair off his forehead and coming to rest gently on the side of his face. 

He didn’t care – he was past caring – he turned his cheek into her touch and closed his eyes, his free hand coming up and catching hers on his face.

Robin didn’t move her hand away. 

Strike opened one eye and looked at her. “I-“ he didn’t want her to see this, but the eight pints and his aching head were catching up with his consciousness.

His eyes cast about and caught sight of a paramedic, sitting in the corner and watching them. Understanding crossed his features and he jumped up, grabbing a small tray. 

“He’s going to be sick.” 

Strike had a moment to register Robin’s worried expression as she got pushed aside rapidly, letting go of his hand. He turned and was sick; his head felt like it would explode, his vision was going black again. He was losing control; his upper body was seizing, he was fighting to stay with it.

His last image was of Robin, her lips forming his name, before the blissful darkness took over. 

*****

“How did you find him?”

“I didn’t – a couple found him in that alley, they said there was blood all around his head-“

“Don’t worry, head wounds always bleed more than-“

“Nick, he’s just had a drill into his brain, of course we’re worried-“

“Cormoran?”

Strike’s brain could barely sort through the mix of words. There was an uncomfortable sense of light all around him, even with his eyes closed. Too bright.

“I swear, his hand moved just now. I felt his fingers twitch.”

“Yeah, his eyelids – I think he’s coming round-“

“Oggy? You there, mate?”

Strike opened his eyes. Much too bright, but he kept them open, squinting into the glare.

“I’m going to turn the lights lower.”

_Ilsa._

“Oggy! We’re here, mate. You’re okay.”

_Nick._

“Cormoran – I’m, I’m here too.”

Strike’s heart gave a leap, and a memory of being in an ambulance came back to him. 

_Robin._

He squeezed her hand, turning his head to the sound of her voice. His vision was unfocused, but he could make out her steady gaze, her tear-streaked cheeks, her beautiful red-gold hair. 

“You’re in the hospital. You had to have surgery. It was-“ She turned to Nick, faltering.

He smiled at Strike. “They had to relieve the pressure on your brain. You got whacked good, my friend. They had to drill some burr holes, they’re called, but don’t worry-“ Nick put a hand up, as if forestalling Strike’s concern. “You’ll be fine.”

He took a deep breath, as if to reassure himself that his childhood friend would indeed be as fine as he hoped.

The lights in the room dimmed to a tolerable level. Strike turned his eyes back to Robin, drinking her in.

Ilsa came back from the corner of the room and squeezed Strike’s shoulder gently.   
“Let us know when you’re ready to tell us what happened.” She smiled sternly at him. “And don’t bloody scare us like that again.” She nodded across to Nick, who got up.

“We’ll leave you two alone for a bit.” 

Strike didn’t miss Nick’s wink. He would have scowled at him if he could have managed to make his facial muscles obey his brain.

He felt a hand on his chest as Ilsa and Nick left the room.

“Hi.”

Strike tried a smile in return; found that the corners of his lips lifted. His brain was already tired.

“I know you’re tired. You’re probably really out of it.” Robin’s fingertips were light above his heart.

“I just want to say. I’m glad you’re okay. Well, the doctors say you will be – you look bloody awful.” She laughed, her eyes searching his. He exhaled through his nose in a huff, managed to lift an eyebrow.

She grinned. “You do. You look horrible. I was so worried that you-“ She faltered. “I’m just so glad you’re okay.” She stood up, leaned forward, and kissed his forehead. Strike closed his eyes. 

“I’m here when you’re ready, okay? I’m not leaving.” He felt her lips leave his skin, felt her breath close to his ear. Felt his heartbeat, thrumming steadily, as her hand found its way into his again, before slipping back into sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just needed a bit of release for these two; I've shamelessly shoehorned them into a situation with cold ice and a hot kiss. (I hope!) Poor Ilsa and Nick - I've used their place as a kiss location before, and I'll probably do it again. Apologies to their kitchen counter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your comments - you are so generous!

“What an awful thing to hear!” exclaimed Ilsa, her eyes on Robin.

“Yeah. I-“ Robin swallowed. “I knew Cormoran couldn’t hear me – all I could hear was Alex and his mates, and the sound of a fight.”

Nick looked at Strike meaningfully. “Lucky your call went through.”

Strike nodded. “I thought I had dialed you, actually. I remember kind of giving up on my phone, though. I could barely get my fingers working.”

Robin smiled at him. “I’m glad you called me, even if you didn’t realize it had worked. How else would we have proof?” Her face fell a little bit.  
“I don’t seem to be a good judgement of character, when it comes to men.”

Ilsa reached forward and grabbed her hand. “Robin. Don’t blame yourself. Alex was a charmer. You’ll get to see him face to face at the station and let him have it.”

Robin squared her shoulders. “Yeah. I know.” She grinned suddenly, a flash of confidence. “I’m rather looking forward to it.”

Ilsa smiled. “Oh! Our drinks! We need more ice.”

“Let me.” Strike got up and grabbed the glasses. He needed a moment to himself. He made his way into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, relishing the quiet.

Christ, he was desperate for a smoke. When he left the hospital two days ago, the doctor had warned him imperiously to cut back, especially over the next few weeks as he recovered.

“And no situations that might put you in physical stress or harm,” drawled the doctor, reciting a litany of rules and precautions. 

Strike figured he was halfway following the medical advice; good enough. He could hardly afford to take a week off, asleep at his flat. He heard laughter from the dining table; he’d know Robin’s anywhere.  
Exactly when had he lost total control of his own feelings? The fact that she had been there for him, in the hospital, meant a great deal more than he could adequately express. The fact that he had dialed her number that night and not Nick’s probably meant even more. He knew, had possibly always known, that he and Robin might reach a point of no return. The way she had stayed by his side through all of this made it clear they’d arrived at that point.

But where to go from here? She must be reeling from the whole mess with Alex. He could hardly go for it now, could he? Would there ever be a right time? 

As if called by his racing thoughts, Robin came into the kitchen.

“I didn’t realize getting ice was such a hard task. Would you like me to show you how it’s done?” She smiled at him, teasing.

“Taking my time to make sure I get it just right,” he grinned back. Teasing was easier. Teasing, he could do.

Robin walked up to the freezer, pulled out the ice tray and placed in on the counter next to him. “It’s very good to see you out of the hospital, although Barclay told me you worked surveillance today. You and I must have different definitions of ‘bedrest.’”

“I had two days of rest. It was one too many.”

Robin rolled her eyes at him, then leaned forward to give him a quick hug. “I still can’t get over how scared I was for you.”

Surprised, it took a few seconds for Strike’s arms to come up around her. She leaned back to look into his face.

“How’s your head?” 

It was actually a bit sore, but nothing he couldn’t handle. His hands were still on her lower back. He could feel the warmth of her skin through her clothes.  
“It’s alright.”

“Are you sure?” Robin’s cool hand came up to the back of his head and gently found the patch of shaved hair growing over his incision. He gave an involuntary shudder at her touch, closing his eyes.

“Yep.” His hands went to her waist. Neither of them moved away. He opened his eyes, looking down at her.

Her expression was heated. 

“What about your lip?” Robin’s gaze fell to his mouth, and the three stitches there. She brought her hand down from the back of his scalp and rested her fingers, feather light, on the cut.

Without thinking, without breaking eye contact, Strike kissed her fingertips. Robin closed her eyes, leaning forward. Her body close to his.

Robin opened her eyes, gently tracing the stitches on his lip. Strike’s breathing was unsteady.

“Robin.”

His hands were gripping her hips now. They hadn’t talked this through; there was the whole mess with Alex, they had years of tangled history-

“Cormoran-” Robin breathed.

He pulled her roughly to him, and it was a dam breaking. He kissed her with a hunger and need built from years of suggested conversations and secret thoughts. His hands were all instinct – his broad palms traveled from her hips, up the sides of her body, back down again, pressing her against him roughly. Robin moaned into his mouth, her tongue meeting his, arching her back.

Strike’s head was throbbing; his whole damn body was throbbing. He couldn’t tell where his fevered head began and his hot desire ended. He was no longer aware of what he was supposed to be doing or thinking; there was nothing but Robin, the curve of her body beneath his hands, her tongue in his mouth, her hair in his hands. 

He felt Robin pull back a bit, had to wrench himself back to reality. Her breath was ragged. 

“Your skin is so hot, it’s like you’re on fire.”

Strike’s hand was underneath her shirt, spanning across the skin of her stomach. 

“I thought that was you.” His hand came up and cupped Robin’s breast through her bra. Robin gasped.

“Are you guys lost in there, or what? I sent you into the kitchen for ice, not the North Pole!” shouted Nick. 

Strike reached beside him with his free hand and cracked the ice tray messily. Chips flew onto the counter. He kissed Robin’s neck, his other hand finding her pointed nipple. He squeezed gently, eliciting a moan from Robin.

“Please-“ she whispered, leaning into his touch. He stopped kissing her neck, put an ice cube into his mouth, his eyes searching hers.

He bent his head to her breast, his hand still working gently through her bra. His other hand went to her hip, firm, pressing her against him, his hardness, guiding them into a rhythm. He was lost to his own desire, ignoring the voice in his head telling him to lift her right up onto the counter, dinner party be damned. 

He swallowed, and his mouth found Robin’s nipple. He let the half-melted ice cube come forward, flicking it against her nipple with his tongue, then moved it back against the roof of his mouth, sucking again. Robin’s hands clenched the fabric of his shirt; she bit the fabric of his collar.

“I want you, I want-“ the words came out of her in a rush, into his ear, causing him to groan.

Strike brought his head back up, his hands tangled into her hair, his breathing shallow. “I told you,” he said between breaths, thumbs tracing along her scalp, “I’m taking my time with the ice.” 

He was kissing her again, the ice cube almost gone but still cold between their hot tongues, their hips still moving together. 

“Cormoran, mate, what are you up to in my kitchen?” 

Strike felt Robin place a hand on his chest – nothing else could have stopped him. He stilled, rested his forehead against hers, then stood up straight, taking a deep breath. He smiled at Robin, who grinned back, her chest rising and falling.

“Oggy!”

“Nick! Calm down about the fucking ice!” Strike yelled back, his voice hoarse. His eyes were still on Robin. They heard Nick and Ilsa laugh.

Robin shook her head and shrugged, gently withdrawing. “I guess you need my help after all.” Strike let out a huff of laughter, then grabbed the glasses he had brought in with him.

“I guess we’d better go back.”

Robin smiled. “I guess we better had.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge burst of inspiration-thanks goes to LulaIsAKitten, Hobbeshalftail3469, and RoseNoble9 - I've been reading your stuff madly all weekend and even if you don't know it, your writing served as total inspiration for me!
> 
> Also: the burr holes that were drilled into Strike's head are not uncommon to relieve pressure after a head wound/concussion. While it's still a surgery, it's much more straightforward and less scary then it sounds. The fact that he's recovered enough, a few days after being released, to be up walking/kissing Robin is not far-fetched, although he wouldn't be 100%.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin confronts Alex at the station.

Robin smoothed her hair down again. It was fine, but it was soothing to have something for her hands to do while she waited in the empty interrogation room. She wasn’t nervous; she was angry. With Alex. Some residual anger at Matthew, which flared up at unexpected times. Men in general were not faring too well in Robin’s estimation that morning.

Earlier, meeting Strike at the station had meant an awkward hug and a charged conversation about nothing in particular. 

“How’s the head?” Robin had asked, then added a little daringly, “didn’t overdo it last night with all that ice retrieval, did you?” 

Strike had just smiled blandly. “The head is fine.” 

Which had left Robin frustrated, but unwilling to get into the thick of things just before confronting Alex.

The door opened and an officer led in a handcuffed Alex, resentment written all over his features. He saw Robin and sneered. How had she once thought this man charming?

He took a seat across from her at the table, and the officer backed out with a mumbled, “be right outside the door.”

She and Strike had built enough of a relationship with the police to pull strings to do this: it was hardly protocol, but Robin didn’t care. She was grateful for a chance to face Alex in person.

Alex said nothing as she stared at him.

Robin looked back at him, expressionless.

He took the bait and spoke first. “Proud of yourself, are you? Think because you got lucky with that muffled recording, I’ll call you a detective?”

“I am a detective, although what I can’t call you, is much of a challenge.”

Alex leaned back in the chair and smirked. “That giant fucker of a boss of yours isn’t so tough after all, is he? Went down with one blow.”

Robin’s heart was pounding, but she betrayed nothing. “As I understand it, it took five of you to make that blow. With a broken wood board and a nail in the back.” She smiled coldly. “I wonder what would have happened if the situation were reversed? Fancy your chances with, as you put it so eloquently, five ‘giant fuckers', against yourself?”

The smirk left Alex’s face. “So what. A bunch of blokes got into a fight. No big deal.”

Robin leaned forward. “As you’re about to discover, premeditated assault and battery is rather a big deal.”

For the first time, Alex looked a bit panicked. “You may have that recording, but you can’t prove it was planned.”

“More than a dozen witnesses who saw you point your finger at the pub and declare “you’ll be sorry,” say otherwise. Including your date.”

She took great satisfaction at the way his face fell.

“But-I was kidding.” 

“Did you really think this wouldn’t be traced back to you? Did you really think I wouldn’t look into this?”

“I thought-“

“I highly doubt you think about anything at all, except yourself.”

Alex glared at her, speechless for a moment. Then he said,

“I guess you think you’ve got it all fucking figured out.”

Robin stilled, but didn’t look away.

“Actually, I did figure it all out, didn’t I? Just like I figured out what a nasty temper you have and what a shitty man you are. I’m just sorry I didn’t figure it out sooner.” Robin stood up and straightened her coat, hiding her shaking fingers.

“Goodbye, Alex.”

His face contorted in anger, and he stood up. He moved towards her, his arms out in front of him, his hands cuffed. “You fucking little bitch.”

Robin backed away, just as the door opened to reveal not only the officer, but a scowling Strike, who took one step into the room, and punched Alex squarely in the face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize it would be unlikely that the police would let Robin have a private conversation with Alex, but I like to think that they have enough sway with people at the station to arrange for it.


End file.
